all this tackle?” asked the burly and somewhat red-faced customs officer at Fort Erie.
“This,” said Yates, “is a tent, with the poles and pegs appertaining thereto. These are a number of packages of tobacco, on which I shall doubtless have to pay something into the exchequer of her Majesty. This is a jug used for the holding of liquids. I beg to call your attention to the fact that it is at present empty, which unfortunately prevents me making a libation to the rites of good-fellowship. What my friend has in that valise I don’t know, but I suspect a gambling outfit, and would advise you to search him.”
“My valise contains books principally, with some articles of wearing apparel,” said the professor, opening his grip.
The customs officer looked with suspicion on the whole outfit, and evidently did not like the tone of the American. He seemed to be treating the customs department in a light and airy manner, and the officer was too much impressed by the dignity of his position not to resent flippancy. Besides, there were rumors of Fenian invasion in the air, and the officer resolved that no Fenian should get into the country without paying duty.
“Where are you going with this tent?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. Perhaps you can tell us. I don’t know the country about here. Say, Stilly, I’m off uptown to attend to the emptiness in this stone utensil. I’ve been empty too often myself not to sympathize with its condition. You wrestle this matter out about the tent. You know the ways of the country, whereas I don’t.”
It was perhaps as well that Yates left negotiations in the hands of his friend. He was quick enough to see that he made no headway with the officer, but rather the opposite. He slung the jar ostentatiously over his shoulder, to the evident discomfort of the professor, and marched up the hill to the nearest tavern, whistling one of the lately popular war tunes.
“Now,” he said to the barkeeper, placing the jar tenderly on the bar, “fill that up to the nozzle with the best rye you have. Fill it with the old familiar juice, as the late poet Omar saith.”
The bartender did as he was requested.
“Can you disguise a little of that fluid in any way, so that it may be taken internally without a man suspecting what he is swallowing?”
The barkeeper smiled. “How would a cocktail fill the vacancy?”
“I can suggest nothing better,” replied Yates. “If you are sure you know how to make it.”
The man did not resent this imputation of ignorance. He merely said, with the air of one who gives an incontrovertible answer:
“I am a Kentucky man myself.”
“Shake!” cried Yates briefly, as he reached his hand across the bar. “How is it you happened to be here?”
“Well, I got in to a little trouble in Louisville, and here I am, where I can at least look at God’s country.”
“Hold on,” protested Yates. “You’re making only one cocktail.”
“Didn’t you say one?” asked the man, pausing in the compounding.
“Bless you, I never saw one cocktail made in my life. You are with me on this.”
“Just as you say,” replied the other, as he prepared enough for two.
“Now I’ll tell you my fix,” said Yates confidentially. “I’ve got a tent and some camp things down below at the customhouse shanty, and I want to get them taken into the woods, where I can camp out with a friend. I want a place where we can have absolute rest and quiet. Do you know the country round here? Perhaps you could recommend a spot.”
“Well, for all the time I’ve been here, I know precious little about the back country. I’ve been down the road to Niagara Falls, but never back in the woods. I suppose you want some place by the lake or the river?”
“No, I don’t. I want to get clear back into the forest—if there is a forest.”
“Well, there’s a man in to-day from somewhere near Ridgeway, I think. He’s got a hay rack with him, and that would be just the thing to take your tent and poles. Wouldn’t be very comfortable traveling for you, but it would be all right for the tent, if it’s a big one.”
“That will suit us exactly. We don’t care a cent about the comfort. Roughing it is what we came for. Where will I find him?”
“Oh, he’ll be along here soon. That’s his team tied there on the side street. If he happens to be in good humor, he’ll take your things, and as like as not give you a place to camp in his woods. Hiram Bartlett’s his name. And, talking of the old Nick himself, here he is. I say, Mr. Bartlett, this gentleman was wondering if you couldn’t tote out some of his belongings. He’s going out your way.”
Bartlett was a somewhat uncouth and wiry specimen of the Canadian farmer who evidently paid little attention to the subject of dress. He said nothing, but looked in a lowering way at Yates, with something of contempt and suspicion in his glance.
Yates had one receipt for making the acquaintance of all mankind. “Come in, Mr. Bartlett,” he said cheerily, “and try one of my friend’s excellent cocktails.”
“I take mine straight,” growled Bartlett gruffly, although he stepped inside the open door. “I don’t want no Yankee mixtures in mine. Plain whisky’s good enough for any man, if he is a man. I don’t take no water, neither. I’ve got trouble enough.”
The bartender winked at Yates as he shoved the decanter over to the newcomer.
“Right you are,” assented Yates cordially.
The farmer did not thaw out in the least because of this prompt agreement with him, but sipped his whisky gloomily, as if it were a most disagreeable medicine.
“What did you want me to take out?” he said at last.
“A friend and a tent, a jug of whisky and a lot of jolly good tobacco.”
“How much are you willing to pay?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m always willing to do what’s right. How would five dollars strike you?”
The farmer scowled and shook his head.
“Too much,” he said, as Yates was about to offer more. “‘Taint worth it. Two and a half would be about the right figure. Don’no but that’s too much. I’ll think on it going home, and charge you what it’s worth. I’ll be ready to leave in about an hour, if that suits you. That’s my team on the other side of the road. If it’s gone when you come back, I’m gone, an’ you’ll have to get somebody else.”
With this Bartlett drew his coat sleeve across his mouth and departed.
“That’s him exactly,” said the barkeeper. “He’s the most cantankerous crank in the township. And say, let me give you a pointer. If the subject of 1812 comes up,—the war, you know,—you’d better admit that we got thrashed out of our boots; that is, if you want to get along with Hiram. He hates Yankees like poison.”
“And did we get thrashed in 1812?” asked Yates, who was more familiar with current topics than with the history of the past.
“Blessed if I know.
